


Nightmares

by MichelleDV



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Ichabbie Forever, Missing Scene, Nightmares, it's sangsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 10:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27848982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MichelleDV/pseuds/MichelleDV
Summary: Missing scene that takes place after s2e1. The aftermath of Ichabbie's return from purgatory.
Relationships: Ichabod Crane & Abbie Mills, Ichabod Crane/Abbie Mills
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	Nightmares

Abbie ran, as hard and as fast as she ever had before. Breath hitching, legs pumping, feet barely finding purchase on the ground before propelling her on, she willed herself to keep moving, to put as much distance between them as possible.  
  
She clung to the shadows, avoiding the light she didn't understand, the way it came from nowhere but lit up just enough of Purgatory to make Moloch's pursuit of her more dangerous than any foe she’d escaped from before. Branches struck at her as she flew through the woods, slicing her arms and her cheek, leaving lashes worth taking if it meant her escape.   
  
"Lieutenant.... Lieutenant?"  
  
Crane's voice came to her on the wind, and she ached to follow it, but this place breathed treachery, and she knew better than to succumb now. She'd lasted this long here only by keeping her wits—what little she had left—about her, and allowing Moloch or one of his minions to trap her using Crane as a disguise seemed the easiest way to go.  
  
Still, him calling her name felt like cool water in the desert: refreshing, life-saving, necessary. And a veritable mirage. No, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let them take her down now. And most especially not by using Crane’s likeness as bait.

“Lieutenant.”

Breathing burned her lungs, but she drove herself forward, away from his approaching voice. She knew he couldn’t be right behind her. _He’s not here_ , she screamed to herself when everything in her demanded she stop and look at him, let down the walls of fear and self-preservation for just a moment while she made sure he was real, that he’d returned for her and would help her fight this demon that’d hunted her since childhood. She could use a boon right now, and having Crane here would certainly lift her spirits—and her chance of survival.

“Lieutenant!”

The urgency in his voice increased, and she screamed when his hand landed on her shoulder, pulling her back, causing her to trip. Her hands and knees landed hard on the ground, and her instincts and sheriff’s training had her rolling onto her back to see her attacker, to face him with even a chance to fight back. But no one was there and she suddenly felt woozy, the inky blackness and the unnatural light swirling together, creating a maelstrom of dizzying effects and causing sparks to flash in her vision. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tumult as a whirring sound filled her ears, building up until it was nearly unbearable.

And then it suddenly stopped.

For a second, Abbie wondered if she’d gone deaf, but then Crane’s voice came again, soft and tender and full of fear.

“Lieutenant?”

She slowly eased her eyes open, afraid of what she might see, where she might be, as she tried to slow her breathing. _In through the nose, out through the mouth_ , she commanded herself.

The low lighting inside Corbin’s cabin came from the fireplace before her and the small lamp beside her, both of them chasing shadows into the corners of the room. The couch beneath her felt tangible, the heat from the hearth flushed warmly against her skin, and the man standing next to her appeared solid and real. And definitely concerned.

“Are you alright?” Crane asked quietly, worry written on his face as he sat down next to her, angling himself towards her, placing a steaming cup of warmth on the coffee table before them.

Abbie sat forward, gripping the edge of the couch cushion with both hands. She didn’t answer him, couldn’t. Wasn’t even sure how. _Was_ she alright? After a dream like that? Not out of Purgatory for more than two hours and already haunted and tortured by her time there? The sound of Crane-but-not-Crane chasing her? She’d already had to kill him once. The trauma of that…of the way that monster had hugged her, held her, knew exactly the right words to say to make her believe him. How he’d fulfilled his promise to her. How gentle and caring and concerned he’d seemed. And nearly at the cost of her life.

As both her strength and her weakness, Crane was a danger to her. And their enemies knew it.

Her stomach roiled with sickness, and she gripped the couch harder, trying to anchor herself to reality. To face the man next to her who only wanted to help her but couldn’t possibly understand what beheading him-but-not-him had felt like.

“I…”

She tried to assure him, but the words wouldn’t come, and she continued staring at the fire before her, trying to gather her thoughts, to eradicate the fear coursing through her body from the frantic nightmare.

Crane leaned forward a bit, trying to see her, and though she didn’t turn away, she wasn’t ready for his keen eyes to read what she knew must be present on her face. He seemed to sense her reticence and pulled back to sit up straight, returning to his military posture as his fingers absently drummed against his knees.

“Ah, I made you a cup of tea. I thought it might soothe you after…” He trailed off, unsure how to continue, even as he picked up the steaming cup and handed it to her.

Abbie accepted it, though the thought of drinking it made her stomach ill again. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye to find him surreptitiously watching her, his expression soft and apprehensive.

“Thank you,” she said, holding up the cup for a moment, wanting, without conversation, to let him know she was okay.

“You’re most welcome, Abigail.”

His voice, smooth like honey and gentle in that way he had when they were alone, washed over her, but it was his use of her name that had her freeze with the cup at her lips.

_Abigail_? she thought, her heart burning in her chest. He’d called her Lieutenant, Miss Mills, Abbie, even using her full name of Grace Abigail Mills once or twice. But Abigail? He’d never…

Blood pounding, the fear in her rising, she moved the cup away from her mouth without taking a sip, slow and easy, trying not to startle.

A disconcerted look stole over his face. “Is something wrong?”

Abbie swallowed hard. “No. It’s just too hot to drink,” she explained, her eyes darting around, looking for anything out of place.

There. Her jacket lay on the seat of the chair in a crumpled pile, not at all how she took care of such an expensive item, gifted to her by Corbin a few Christmases ago. She _always_ hung it up when she took it off. And there, the door, always locked whether they were here or not, wasn’t bolted, a security measure she knew they wouldn’t have foregone after their return from Purgatory.

Abbie felt on edge, the hairs on her arms standing up as her brain scrambled to reason away her worries, her bone-deep fears that this moment, this place, wasn’t real.

Crane’s expression changed to frustration. “You really should drink up,” he scolded, and Abbie’s heartrate kicked up instantly, ice flooding her veins at his tone.

_He’d never… This isn’t real. Dear God, this isn’t real._

Her insides melted in defeat, even as adrenaline flooded her system. She tried to give him a small smile, though it came out more like a grimace, and moved away from him on the couch under the guise of getting more comfortable.

Crane— _faux Crane_ , she reminded herself—leaned towards her as she retreated. “Abigail,” he sneered, his tone a warning she more than heeded.

Without thought, she jerked her hand in his direction, flinging the hot cup of tea into his face. Not-Crane roared in agony, and as Abbie grabbed the knife at her hip— _a knife_? she wondered. She’d never carried a knife. But it didn’t matter; she’d use it.—his mouth opened wide and snarled at her, a repeat of her last encounter with Not-Crane, and his appearance became distorted, jaw distended, eyes black, face red.

Abbie stabbed the butcher-sized utility knife into his chest multiple times, and the creature bellowed wildly, anguished and distressed. With her last stab, she left the knife burrowed deep in its chest, and as it grabbed at its wounds, she ran for the door. The screams behind her, still in Crane’s rich, full voice, followed her, and she felt sure she had time to escape before Not-Crane or some other demon could catch her.

She was wrong.

Her hand grabbed the doorknob, and she felt tension and dread swirling around her—she only needed a few more seconds to get outside, find the shadows, and run. Again.—when hands clapped on her shoulders, pulling her back.

“Nooo!” she screamed.

“Lieutenant!”

His voice came again, insistent and worried and sounding _so real_ she could cry. And God, did she want to. To just break down and give in and let go and be done. Done with all of it. But it just wasn’t in her. She didn’t know how to give up.

“Let me go!” she hollered, flailing at the hands grabbing at her.

“Lieutenant! Lieutenant, wake up!”

Crane’s hands, firm but gentle, held her shoulders as she came awake, his tall, wide frame filling her vision. She flung his hands away, instinctively shoving him back from her, and scrambled to the opposite end of the couch, as far away from him as possible.

His face went through a whole range of emotions within a few seconds: shock, worry, fear, hurt, confusion, uncertainty. And Abbie had to make herself not care.

How many times could this happen? How many times would she feel safe, let down her guard, have a moment to take a breath, believe she’d returned relatively safely to the world of the living, to Corbin’s cabin, only to have to kill a Not-Crane? It didn’t matter that it only happened now in her mind’s eye, not when she woke up in her dreams only to realize she was still trapped in her nightmare. She felt both kills in her soul, hated watching Crane’s handsome face morph into a monster, feared she might hurt the real him if she didn’t figure out a way to determine reality from dreams. Even now…was he real? Or was she still locked in that realm, tortured and haunted? Had he really returned for her, found her? Had they opened the portal and come back, or had that been a cruel demon’s trick of her mind, as well?

Crane flipped the edges of his coat away from him in that wonderfully distracting way he had and slowly eased himself down onto the other end of the couch, eyes full of concern never leaving her. “Lieutenant…?” he began. “I most graciously apologize for any offense; I merely meant to awaken you from your nightmare. Are you alright?”

“This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real,” she murmured the mantra to herself quietly, keeping her eyes open, mind aware, heart aching with the realization she was going to have to live this scenario over and over and over again, facing and killing Not-Crane each and every time.

“Lieutenant, please.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly undid her, and her heart spiraled into her stomach, the roiling sensation returning yet again.

Then she saw the steaming mug on the coffee table, the fire blazing in the fireplace, the cabin scene set up again. Did they think her mad already, that she’d fall for this once more?

“You’re not real!” she stated emphatically, eyes boring into the man she longed to cling to. She tucked herself further into the couch corner, even as she kept her legs free to sprint away when necessary.

Confusion clouded his face for a moment before realization dawned. “Your nightmare was of Purgatory, wasn’t it? Lieutenant, I can assure you with full authority you’re very much here, this realm is real, and I’m the genuine article.”

“I _don’t_ believe you,” she said without guile. She held his gaze for a few moments, waiting for his face to transform into the demonic now that she’d confronted him outright, but he merely stared back at her, sympathy and pain etched on his face.

She couldn’t watch his emotional countenance, couldn’t bear to see the face that used to grace the sweetest of her dreams on a monster hell-bent on destroying her for one more second. Her eyes drifted around the room, the firelight flickering shadows into the corners, and she looked at the chair. Her jacket was missing this time. No, not missing…it hung on the coat stand by the door, just where she would’ve left it. She glanced at the door. Locked.

“Abbie…look at me. Please,” he pleaded tenderly, desperately.

They’d fixed their mistakes: the use of her name, the small details that meant nothing to them and meant all the world to her. _Damn, they learn fast_ , she thought, wondering what other horrors awaited her.

“Don’t,” she warned, staring into the fire, at the mug on the table, at the floor. Anywhere but at the Not-Crane pulling her heartstrings with his desperation and fear. “Come on, Abbie…think!” she scolded herself quietly.

“Lieutenant, you’re here, in Master Corbin’s cabin. Miss Jenny took her leave less than an hour ago, and I left you here on the couch to rest whilst I made you dinner. I heard your distress—”

“Wait… _you_ went to make dinner?” she wondered with sarcastic disbelief.

His head swooped a little to the left in that disconcerted way he had before meeting her ironic laughter. “I realize I’m no chef, but we have frozen pizza, and with your ordeal in Purgatory, I thought it best for you to rest.”

“No doubt. Please continue your charade,” she conceded with a flourish of one hand, seemingly amused.

“Lieutenant, I implore you, hear what I’m saying. I heard your distress and came to ensure your safety.”

“And the tea?” she queried, eyeing the mug cooling on the table between them.

“I’ve learned you enjoy your peppermint tea in the evenings to relax, and I thought perhaps you—”

“Stop it!” she cut him off loudly, all trace of irony gone. “You’re not real, none of this is.” She swept her arm around, indicating the room, the cabin, him. “And I’m sick of this game. _Sick_ of it!”

Crane extended his hand towards her, his finger pointing up as it did when he sensed something amiss. “Abbie—”

“No! No more!” She knew she was losing her cool and her temper and likely her mind, but running through the woods and killing the Non-Cranes hadn’t worked so far. Maybe direct confrontation would save her some of the trouble.

“Look,” he entreated, stretching his arm out, fist facing towards her. “Fist bump.”

She laughed at him, the pain and terror and anguish bubbling up anew. “You think that’s gonna work this time?”

“What will? Tell me what I can do to assure you you’re _here_ ,” he implored, scooting closer to her.

She held her hand up in warning, all laughter leaving her face. “Stay there.”

“Abbie…”

He sounded so heartbroken, so sad, she almost let down her guard. Almost. But she’d been here before, _right here_ , and he’d become a monster she’d had to kill.

“I made you a promise: I’d come back for you. And I did, do you remember? Granted, there was a…another me, but you beheaded him. Quite admirably, I might add…as disconcerting as that may be.” She remained silent, her expression blank and uncaring as she stared at him, unmoving, and he continued. “Miss Jenny was waiting for us on this side and brought us here a few hours ago.”

Abbie remembered the events but couldn’t be sure they’d been real, not after the repetitive dreams she was having. Couldn’t it all have been a dream? _Nightmare_ , she corrected herself. 

His expression changed from pleading to resolute. He _needed_ to make her believe his words—she saw it written on his face.

That damn finger came up again. So much like Crane. So familiar and irritating and wonderful. But no….

“Just after we met, you told me about your sister, how you elected to keep your encounter in the woods a secret, even if it meant alienating yourself from Miss Jenny. You’d never spoken of it to anyone, not a priest, a therapist, or Master Corbin. But you shared it with me.”

She shook her head, disbelieving. He’d have to give her more than that, more than words he’d whispered to her in Purgatory or something anyone could’ve found out by now. Something Henry or Moloch or Katrina or Andy or anything else that watched them couldn’t know.

“Abbie, please…what can I do?”

She concentrated on him, studying his every move and gesture, watching the pain in his eyes, expecting it to turn to deceit, trying to find a flaw that would reveal the creature’s true nature. So far, this was the best Crane they’d put forth, and she longed to accept his words, ached to ease up the fight for even a few minutes of respite. But not yet. She needed more assurances, to be absolutely sure before letting down her guard.

She swallowed hard, keeping her expression blank. “Where'd you find the password to Paul Revere's cipher, explaining the Horseman's weakness?”

He gave her a hopeful look, not quite smiling but some of the pain eased away from his striking features. “In the Horseman's skull, on the back of his teeth,” he answered quickly, proudly.  
  
“What was it?”  
  
“Cicero.”

Abbie eyed him curiously, feeling giant cracks snake up the façade of strength she’d erected as he answered her questions correctly. No one in Purgatory could know these things. Despite the fear that this could all be a sham, she felt the tension in her muscles begin to ease. “The first morning after you awakened, what’d I bring you for breakfast?”  
  
One side of his mouth quirked up. "Donut holes. Now my favorite," he added with an easy, conspiratorial smile.  
  
She wanted to believe him. And more than that…she started to. "Most hated item when I bought you modern clothes?"  
  
"Skinny jeans," he groaned with disdain, and she couldn’t keep the wall up any longer. She let the tears pierce her eyes, stinging like nettles after what seemed like years of holding them back. They blurred her vision, and she blinked rapidly, refusing to let them fall.  
  
"Crane...it's really you?" Her voice broke on the last word, and she saw him slowly move towards her.  
  
"Yes, Lieutenant, you're here. This is all real."

He reached for her then, slowly, and she inched her hand up to meet his, tentative and fearful as their fingers grasped at one another. His touch, warm and comforting and familiar, sent a shiver up her spine and gooseflesh racing down her arms.  
  
" _'I'm_ real," he assured her, nearly whispering. He eased towards her as she clutched at his hand, and he enveloped hers in his much larger one.  
  
His eyes never left her face, and he saw the moment she let her guard down, the second belief flooded her eyes. Her face broke in agony as a single tear slipped down one cheek. He feared startling her, scaring her into retreating again, but she launched herself at him and he was only too happy to catch her in his arms.

The dam broke, and Abbie didn’t try to stop it this time. Crane had actually found a way to break her out of Purgatory. He’d come back for her like he’d promised, they’d escaped, and she’d reunited with Jenny, returned to the cabin, and fallen asleep. The dreams tortured her, but here with Crane—the _real_ one—here in his arms, she could _finally_ , freely release some of her anguish.

One of his hands cupped her head, and her heart constricted in her chest at his gentle touch, at the tenderness with which he held her. So familiar and comforting and safe. The other wrapped protectively around her back as she clung to the front of his shirt with both hands, tears streaming down her face.

“I’m sorry, Abbie. I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his heart shattering at the effects his actions had caused her to suffer. Even safe now, she still suffered.

Her head shook against his chest. “I made my choice.”

Her whispered voice hitched, and he closed his eyes at her words, at the strength and bravery she possessed, even in the face of horrors he couldn’t possibly understand. He didn’t agree with her statement—he could have, _should_ have fought harder against the choice she and Katrina had made to leave her in Purgatory—but a discussion over his failings could come later. Right now she needed _him_ , not his apologies.

She trembled in his arms, and he inched closer, wrapping her tightly against him.

“Alright,” he breathed on a whisper, dropping a kiss into her hair. “You’re alright now. I’ve got you. No matter what, I’ve got you…”

Abbie stayed curled up against him until her tears dried up, her desperate gasps for air slowly transforming into small hiccupped breaths, the raging squall within her finally calming into a gentle storm. She came to herself, feeling washed up and spent and more exhausted than she could ever remember. Not to mention a little embarrassed to have fallen apart in Crane’s arms. She noticed he hadn’t removed himself though, even now that she’d calmed. And she couldn’t make herself retreat either. The safety of his embrace felt entirely too soothing, deliciously warm, and altogether like home after repeatedly fighting a monster wearing his face. His hand ran light circles across her back, a consoling massage like she hadn’t felt in ages, his touch gentle and unassuming, requiring nothing of her but to simply enjoy and be comforted by it. She could hear his heartbeat, feel it beneath where her head lay against his chest, a steady rhythm lulling her into contentment. And making her realize how easy it would be to stay like this forever.

After a while, she forced herself to move, pulling herself up to a seated position, though neither of them broke their connection, Crane’s hands never leaving her as she resettled into his side. His arm stayed around her, his other hand holding onto her arm, absentmindedly caressing her wrist and hand.

With her free hand, she wiped her cheeks clean of tears, closing her eyes against the burn that followed her spent tears.

Ichabod hesitated to break the silence, simply wanting peace for her, even if it came at the end of a breakdown. At least she’d let out some of her torment. Still, he couldn’t resist being attentive, needing to know if he could help her in any way, though he loathed the risk of her leaving his arms. “Is there anything I can get you? Anything you need?” He kept his voice quiet, soft, hardly above a whisper.

He felt her shake her head, then her voice came, shaky and wrung out. “I just wanna stay right here.”

Her words constricted his chest as his heart bloomed, and he nuzzled against her, gently tightening his arm around her. “I want that too.”

His voice came so softly Abbie wondered if she’d really heard him or only imagined it because it’s what she’d want him to say. Regardless, his warmth surrounded her, his presence a comfort she sorely needed, _craved_ if she were honest with herself. He, her other Witness, was the only one who understood the forces they fought, the trauma and aftermath of their battles, the courage, strength, and determination it took to face the next relentless horror standing on tired feet and bearing an emotional exhaustion that never went away. Tonight, all of it seemed too much to handle alone.

Minutes passed, and Abbie counted them by his heartbeats, by his fingers tracing fire trails along her skin, by his breaths feathering into her hair. And by the questions he chose not to ask, no matter how badly she sensed he wanted to. She _needed_ to purge them though, the nightmares she faced once, twice, and likely would again in the future. How would she know she was really awake, that he was really him? They’d have to figure out a code.

“I was back there again,” she began without preamble a few minutes later. “They were chasing me, and no matter how fast I ran, I could hear them closing in on me.” She paused, feeling the fear again, the pounding of her feet and her pulse, the desire to give in to his voice, only to escape and have to fight her way out all over again. 

“You don’t have to,” he assured her quietly, his tone imbued with sympathy and compassion, his words telling her he would listen to her nightmare or her silence—the choice was hers.

She continued, wanting to purge the terror. “I tried to stay in the dark, but the light there…it was strange…like it was searching for me; it wouldn’t let me stay hidden from the demons. And…” She hesitated, knowing he’d feel wracked with guilt at what came next. “You were calling me, chasing after me, too.” Her voice went softer, both at the memory and at how difficult she found it to recap the visions. “I knew it wasn’t real so I kept running, but you caught up to me, grabbed my shoulder, and I tripped. When I landed, I woke up here. At least I thought it was here. You were shaking me awake from that nightmare. The fire was going, you’d turned the lamp on, brought me tea.” She pointed listlessly as she detailed the ways the nightmare mimicked reality. “I thought I’d really woken up, but…the name thing again. You called me ‘Abigail,’ and I knew it wasn’t you. You got angry when I wouldn’t drink the tea and…like before, you…changed, became evil. I had to…” She swallowed hard against the thought, wanting to push the words back into her stomach instead of retching them up, but her body refused. “…I stabbed you. Over and over again. I had to. And then here you were again, shaking me awake in front of the fire, brewing a cup of tea, asking me to trust you again.”

His chest ached as she detailed the dreams, how the demons still plagued her, even in sleep, how frightened she sounded—and had been when she’d awakened.

“Oh, Abbie,” he breathed in a devastated tone, sorrow stealing over his face. “I’m so sorry. I can’t express my regret at leaving you behind or the pain it’s caused you. I’d trade places with you a thousand times over if I could relive that moment and let you return here instead.”

“Crane,” she stopped him softly. “I decided to stay. I chose to stay and face him. I…couldn’t have known how difficult it’d turn out to be, but I chose.”

“But you didn’t choose this: the nightmares, the…demonic versions of me plaguing you.” He realized he sounded angry, and justifiably so at the methods of the enemy, but she didn’t need his rage right now.

He took a calming breath, focusing on the woman curled into his side and how she trusted him even now after her ordeal. By rights she should be casting him away, needing distance from him, breaking down in front of someone else or, worse yet, while alone. That she’d become vulnerable in his arms only emphasized the strength of mind and character she possessed.

The thought nearly stole his breath, and he dared to press another kiss onto the crown of her head.

“No, but it’s what I’ve been dealt.” She sighed heavily. “And so I’ll deal.”

“I’m here. We can deal with it together, if you’ll grant it.”

She turned her head to peer up at him, her big brown eyes soft and damp as tears flooded them but didn’t fall, the tip of her nose pink, her lips full and slightly swollen from crying, her expression vulnerable and somehow hopeful. He stared at her a few beats too long, and his heart started pounding harder in his chest as the room suddenly became warmer.

He couldn’t feel this way. Not now. _Not ever_ , he reminded himself.

“Together?” he breathed, trying to stay focused on their conversation and not how soft she felt, how easily she fit into his side, how tenderly she stared at him, how kissable her lips seemed. How he never wanted to let her go.

She nodded her head once resolutely. “Together,” she promised. Then she nuzzled back into his side, her head upon his heart.


End file.
